Rising Tides: In a city ‘born to celebrate,’ Brandon Wilson brought the joy

Rising Tides is an opinion column exploring all things Mobile. I can’t add much to the tributes that poured out for Brandon J. Wilson in the last week. Scroll through his Facebook page, or those of his friends, and it doesn’t take long to realize that Mobile lost something special. “He was a ray of sunshine & I know he will be missed in every corner of our city and on our waterways.” “We all need to tear a page out of this man’s book and learn a little something.” “Mobile‘s cycling community has lost a beacon of welcome and inclusion … Everyone that met Brandon remembers him as a spark plug of positive energy.” “He was such a light in our city...truly one of a kind. A friend to everyone, always radiating joy and happiness. He will be greatly missed.” With special eloquence from Christy Barnette: “Brandon was completely himself at all times, but not at the cost of kindness and friendship to anyone else. As the shock of his passing wears off and grief starts to set in, my heart aches for those closest to him. He was a bright light that shown through the darkness for many. May all who love Brandon carry that light inside of them, and shine for others the way he did.” Who was Brandon J. Wilson? Just a guy. Not an elected official or a paid advocate or a minister or an artist, just a guy who drove a truck by day for a concrete company. Just a guy who really liked to get out there after hours and go kayaking or go for a casual bike ride with as many friends as possible. And usually that was a lot, because if you showed up for a casual weeknight ride through Midtown and Downtown or an evening paddle on Dog River, and you found Brandon there, you knew it was going to be a fun time. He was boisterous and joyful and it was catching, because he was one of those rare people whose joy seemed to come straight from some primal source. Suddenly and unexpectedly, we got cheated of that. Ann Esposito, who’d known Brandon for many years and been in a relationship with him for seven, told me he’d been having some trouble recently with seizures. One hit him when he was alone at home, resulting in his death at 51. Shock accompanied the news. Within a few hours, the first tribute began to take shape: Instead of the regular Wednesday night casual ride, and another down-the-bay route for faster riders, people would congregate for a tribute ride. “Brandon never met a stranger, and he didn’t care if you were black or white or brown, male, female, gay, straight,” said Esposito. “He loved everybody.” The turnout bore that out: There must have been about 100 of us, who gathered at Callaghan’s for a meander through Midtown in Brandon’s honor. It would be hard to imagine a more diverse group. And while the occasion was somber, it was still full of joy. It had to be, because it was for Brandon. I don’t think you can discount something like this, here and now. The people who dominate Alabama’s politics seem to be racing toward apartheid as fast as they can. I think some people would like to deny that the kind of joy and togetherness personified in the life of Brandon Wilson can even exist. So it’s important to show that it can and does. I picture Brandon at the Pearly Gates. I can hear him hollering about what BS this all is. I can see St. Peter smiling, because even when Brandon hollered about the most outrageous news the world had to offer, there was joy in it. Holly Krause, a friend who’d known Brandon since the mid-1980s, said he’d gone through some hardships and experienced discrimination. But he’d learned to be happy no matter where he was or who he was with. “He just learned to be accepted and to accept all,” she said. “He made everybody feel included. That’s one of the things about his personality that was just so golden, is that there was no such thing as a stranger. He wanted nobody to feel left out at all. He made everyone feel 100% included.” “The best part of the turnout was seeing his father, Mr. Willie,” Krause said. “We took the route past Mr. Willie’s house and he stepped out on his front lawn. And you know, we go by there on our Tuesday bike ride every Tuesday. But by the time we get by there, it’s 8:15 and he’s an 83-year-old man, he’s in the back. So we always say, ‘Hey, Mr. Willie.’ ‘Hey, Pop Pop.’ ‘Terrific Tuesday.’ But we don’t ever get to see him. We’ve never seen him outside, and we’ve been doing the Tuesday ride for four years. But yesterday he came out and got to see how many people his son touched. And he stood in that yard and I saw a smile on his face that looked just like Brandon’s. You know, seeing all those bikers go by, it was really something special.” There will be other tribute rides, and some kayak outings too. Funeral arrangements are in the works, and a GoFundMe campaign has been launched to help his family with expenses. Esposito said one lesson of Brandon’s life is simply this: “Spread your joy. Spread your light. Don’t put off till tomorrow, which you can do today. Because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Tell the people you love that you love them.” I love it when my city gets it right, and in this show of force for Brandon, Mobile did. Maybe it was a small thing, but it was a good thing. And there’s nothing small about embracing and celebrating the joy in life, when someone like Brandon Wilson comes along to remind you that it’s real. Have a suggestion for a future topic? E-mail columnist Lawrence Specker at LSpecker@AL.com.